make a law against women carrying weapons,” someone said. “Go back to the kitchen where you belong, young lady.”
“Shut up, you old coot,” a woman spat. “She might beat the pulp out o’you, and I’d pay her a handsome valour-gild for it too.”
A few people laughed.
Daia stopped. “Would you tell me where I can find the messenger service?”
People quieted and stared, no one answering.
“Please, this is an urgent matter,” she said.
“Two streets to the north,” said the woman who’d spoken earlier. “Sign in front shows an arrow with a scroll wound around its shaft.”
“I got a shaft you can wind around,” someone muttered. Nervous laughter broke out.
“My thanks.” Daia nudged Calie and continued on. By now she’d grown used to the rude comments, though she’d never found humor in them. An unwelcome touch, on the other hand, was an invitation for a bloody nose.
She located the messenger service building, a tiny shack with a creaking floor, but no one was inside. She went through the back door and found a heavyset man, shirtless and sweaty, tending to the hooves of a horse. “Pardon me,” she said. He jumped and startled the horse, making it neigh and sidestep. “I need an urgent message sent right away.”
He measured her with a glance then wiped his hands on a rag. “Come inside. I have a messenger available. It may be a while, though. He’s sleeping after a long ride.”
“I’d appreciate haste. This message is important.”
“Where’s it going?”
“To the Viragon Sisterhood compound in Sohan.”
“My penmanship is excellent. Would you like me to write it for you? No extra charge.”
Daia shook her head. Surely he offered the service for the illiterate customers who couldn’t pen their own messages. “I’ve already written it, though I could use some sealing wax.”
“Very well. Help yourself.” He produced a basket and excused himself to rouse the rider. Daia selected a ribbon with which to tie the rolled paper. She used the flame from a nearby lamp to drip wax on the seam, let it cool a few seconds then pressed her thumb onto the warm blob to seal the letter shut.
The dispatcher returned, breathing heavily. “He’s coming. Getting his boots on. Should be here in a moment. My son is saddling his horse now. We’ll have your message off in a hop-skip.”
“And what is the charge?”
“The normal rate is four kions, but urgent delivery is seven.”
Daia opened her satchel and dug into it for her coin pouch. She counted seven small silver coins into his palm. “Posthaste?”
“Absolutely. Thank you for placing your trust in Arrow Messaging Service.”
Daia left the musty shack and untied Calie’s reins. As she led the horse though the town’s streets, people stopped again to stare.
“You find your friend, Lady Sister?” a man asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Another Sister asked which way you went. I seen you go into the Arrow. She didn’t find you?”
Daia’s throat tightened. “What did this Sister look like?”
“Oh you know, typical Viragon Sister: ugly, board-chested wench with a sword.” He laughed at his own joke. When he saw Daia didn’t join him, he said, “Dark hair, full lips. She had a deep voice for a woman.”
The description sounded like Cirang, the woman who’d framed Daia for another Sister’s murder, the woman who’d given her loyalty to Brodas Ravenkind instead of to the rightful king. Daia returned to the Arrow. The dispatcher looked at her in surprise.
“Lady Sister?”
“Have you seen a Viragon Sister with dark hair? Speaks with a deep voice?”
“No, Lady. Only you.”
“Tell your messenger to watch out for her and do not under any circumstances give the message to anyone other than Lilalian Whisperblade in Sohan.”
“Ah, he’s already left, m’lady. You said it was urgent, so he mounted and rode off with it only a moment after you left here. Never fear, he’s a professional. He wouldn’t let
“Shut up, you old coot,” a woman spat. “She might beat the pulp out o’you, and I’d pay her a handsome valour-gild for it too.”
A few people laughed.
Daia stopped. “Would you tell me where I can find the messenger service?”
People quieted and stared, no one answering.
“Please, this is an urgent matter,” she said.
“Two streets to the north,” said the woman who’d spoken earlier. “Sign in front shows an arrow with a scroll wound around its shaft.”
“I got a shaft you can wind around,” someone muttered. Nervous laughter broke out.
“My thanks.” Daia nudged Calie and continued on. By now she’d grown used to the rude comments, though she’d never found humor in them. An unwelcome touch, on the other hand, was an invitation for a bloody nose.
She located the messenger service building, a tiny shack with a creaking floor, but no one was inside. She went through the back door and found a heavyset man, shirtless and sweaty, tending to the hooves of a horse. “Pardon me,” she said. He jumped and startled the horse, making it neigh and sidestep. “I need an urgent message sent right away.”
He measured her with a glance then wiped his hands on a rag. “Come inside. I have a messenger available. It may be a while, though. He’s sleeping after a long ride.”
“I’d appreciate haste. This message is important.”
“Where’s it going?”
“To the Viragon Sisterhood compound in Sohan.”
“My penmanship is excellent. Would you like me to write it for you? No extra charge.”
Daia shook her head. Surely he offered the service for the illiterate customers who couldn’t pen their own messages. “I’ve already written it, though I could use some sealing wax.”
“Very well. Help yourself.” He produced a basket and excused himself to rouse the rider. Daia selected a ribbon with which to tie the rolled paper. She used the flame from a nearby lamp to drip wax on the seam, let it cool a few seconds then pressed her thumb onto the warm blob to seal the letter shut.
The dispatcher returned, breathing heavily. “He’s coming. Getting his boots on. Should be here in a moment. My son is saddling his horse now. We’ll have your message off in a hop-skip.”
“And what is the charge?”
“The normal rate is four kions, but urgent delivery is seven.”
Daia opened her satchel and dug into it for her coin pouch. She counted seven small silver coins into his palm. “Posthaste?”
“Absolutely. Thank you for placing your trust in Arrow Messaging Service.”
Daia left the musty shack and untied Calie’s reins. As she led the horse though the town’s streets, people stopped again to stare.
“You find your friend, Lady Sister?” a man asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Another Sister asked which way you went. I seen you go into the Arrow. She didn’t find you?”
Daia’s throat tightened. “What did this Sister look like?”
“Oh you know, typical Viragon Sister: ugly, board-chested wench with a sword.” He laughed at his own joke. When he saw Daia didn’t join him, he said, “Dark hair, full lips. She had a deep voice for a woman.”
The description sounded like Cirang, the woman who’d framed Daia for another Sister’s murder, the woman who’d given her loyalty to Brodas Ravenkind instead of to the rightful king. Daia returned to the Arrow. The dispatcher looked at her in surprise.
“Lady Sister?”
“Have you seen a Viragon Sister with dark hair? Speaks with a deep voice?”
“No, Lady. Only you.”
“Tell your messenger to watch out for her and do not under any circumstances give the message to anyone other than Lilalian Whisperblade in Sohan.”
“Ah, he’s already left, m’lady. You said it was urgent, so he mounted and rode off with it only a moment after you left here. Never fear, he’s a professional. He wouldn’t let
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